Memoirs of an Easterling: A tale of Rhûn
by Hresvelgr
Summary: An Easterling soldier reflects on his own past as he heads to war with Gondor.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and its people and places belong to the great Professor Tolkien. I do, however, own most things about Rhûn, including all its characters. I will allow anyone to use my characters or details about Rhûn with permission, though.

**Chapter One: The Black Gates**

_The summer sun scorched the grasslands and forests, making all the village's inhabitants sweat as they plowed their farms, fed their animals, and played in the fields. A small boy joined a light-hearted wrestling match with his brothers. But the coming of several armed men on horseback disturbed the village's peace. _

_One horseman in a black robe brandished a scimitar. He had a mustache that was long, droopy, and old, just like his face and hair. Like a Variag, he carried a banner bearing the sigil of a broken axe attached to his back. The boy's father stepped forward to confront the banner-bearer. He and his younger brothers and sister came to their father's side. "What business do you have in Rhûn?" The father asked. The Variag spoke to his thirty kinsmen in a guttural language, and then lowered himself to get closer to the father's face._

_He replied in a calm and hateful voice, "This." With one swift motion he swept his blade upwards and sliced the father's chest wide open, letting a spray of blood hit his own face and the boy's. The other horsemen immediately started to attack the village with a terrible ferocity. One man plugged an arrow into the back of a fleeing old woman, and another into her husband's throat. _

_The boy stood motionless in shock until the lead Variag grabbed his sister and swung her onto his saddle like some sort of baggage. The boy charged forward, but the Variag's companion knocked him out with a club blow to the head and darkness took him._

Jhiro Katlian woke up, sweating after his nightmare. He was in a tent as the rising sun threw red rays over the plains. Katlian's heart felt weak with a growing fear. He was in the Great Army, as all his superiors called it. Marching out from the grand city of Xáat'l, capital of Rhûn, they were en route to Gondor, and war. A nineteen-year-old man, Katlian was a basic foot soldier in the service of the Empire and it's king, Yax Keeta-Skog. They were to assist Mordor, Khand, and Harad in the destruction of their ancient nemesis, Gondor.

Katlian first took a drink of water, splashed some in his face, and then equipped his scaled bronze armor. Before donning his helmet, he put on a deep-red silk scarf and matching bandanna, both inscribed with golden glyphs that gave good luck and had warding spells against harm. His armor fit nicely on him, but Katlian thought the visor of his brazen helm did not allow much peripheral vision. And the five-foot long polearm he hefted on his shoulder was somewhat heavy. The sheathed scimitar on his belt added to the weight, but he trusted the blade very much. Unfortunately, he had some doubts the scarf was actually magical, but all soldiers had them anyways.

Eventually, he came out of his tent and put his shieild on his back. There was no point in making his arms carry even more weight. The young soldier stood in line for the roll call, and then joined in the marching. They tramped onwards for hours upon hours across golden grasslands. The men became weary after a while until noon came. Ben Zaa, Katlian's sergeant and trusted friend, rode up the columns on his armored horse shouting, "Halt! We make camp here!"

The weary foot soldiers all sighed with relief and sat down on the dry grass. Katlian pulled of his horned helmet and the noonday sun's rays burned his dark eyes for a moment. He scratched his blue-black hair as Zaa sat down next to him, after taking the bronze armor off his horse. "Have you any idea where we are?" Katlian asked his friend.

Zaa rolled his neck and answered back, "We're nearing the Gates. Here, get something to eat." He handed Katlian an onion, which he bit into with great energy. "We march again in five minutes." Two nearby soldiers groaned. "Shut up, Kluan. You too, Kit." The twins hardly listened; they sat down next to Katlian and starting chatting about many random things. They were both seventeen years old, two years younger than their brother Katlian, and while Kluan used a polearm; Kit had a bow and quiver. And like all Easterling soldiers, especially those of Xáat'l, they were skilled with their scimitars. A richly adorned chariot going by interrupted their discussion.

"Get up! We make for Mordor! Rest is over, louts! We're going to be the first ones in Mordor!" Chan Haijiil, their general, kept urging the chariot's horses on and shouting the same thing to the rest of the army. More groans rang out as everyone got up, put their helmets and boots back on, and got ready to continue the long march. Katlian and Zaa stood up too, the sergeant towering over Katlian.

As the hours passed by, the grass and soft dirt eventually gave way for gray rocks and lots of gravel. The Ash Mountains loomed by, and a foul, sulfurous smell arose. Mutters of "Mordor…" arose quietly, and curses were whispered, as if the men of the east feared what could hear them beyond those dark peaks.

By the next morning they had arrived at their destination. Yax Pac led his army past the jagged hills of the Emyn Muil, and the crunching of the Easterlings' boots on against the rocky ground echoed out. And then they saw it.

Katlian gaped in awe and horror of what they has found. "The Black Gates…" He muttered to himself, as nothing more could really be said. The black walls were as tall as the walls of Xáat'l, yet much more ominous. Foul creatures patrolled the top, and the Towers of the Teeth as they were called rose up towards the sky, signaling doom to all those who opposed this evil land. Now he questioned whether such drastic measures such as joining Mordor were necessary to defeat the corrupt and treacherous men of the west.

The Easterling column started their war chant as they neared the gates. Katlian shook himself out of his thoughts and revelry and joined in. In perfect formation, with shining, brazen armor and shields, and marching with a liquid grace and efficiency, he thought they must have impressed the orcs. Ben Zaa certainly seemed to think so. He marched beside Katlian instead of on horseback. "… For death and Glory," they chanted, "To Mordor!" Horn calls on the Gate sounded out. The Black Gate was opening.

Out of the blue, Katlian heard the crumbling of falling rocks to the hills on the left. Though it seemed like nothing important at first, he then heard something slide down the gravel. Zaa heard it too. He motioned for Katlian to come with him. The two Easterling warriors held out their polearms and scanned the hills. The dust had just settled.

Nothing seemed to be there. A rock lay at Katlian's feet. It seemed to be oddly shaped or out of place some other way, but Katlian paid little attention. It was just paranoia probably. _But the rock wasn't there before… _Katlian thought. He decided it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

"Let's go back, Katlian." The young soldier paid him little mind at first. Something was out there. Something smelled… different, somehow. But it was just his mind again, probably…

"Right. We're just wasting time." Katlian and Zaa headed back into the ranks. Over the din of the marching, Katlian's keen ears picked up a sigh. He turned his head, but realized it must've been Ben Zaa. The chant continued on, and they all were passing behind the gigantic wall. Katlian gave one last look toward the hills.

The strange rock was nowhere to be seen.

His heart was pounding furiously in his chest. Katlian was almost sure someone else could hear it, but that didn't matter. Was there some magician hiding in the rock? An elf perhaps, one of the fair and cursed race? Or was it just his mind? Katlian decided it was the latter. He certainly hoped it was.

After the gate had closed in behind them, Katlian suddenly realized that he had been trapped in the underworld of fire. The black plateau of Gorgoroth stretched out ahead, Mount Doom and the Tower of Barad-Dur behind it. The sun was gone, its light blocked out the dark clouds issuing forth from the Mount Doom by Sauron's command, to give the orcs the only comfort they would ever get. Katlian wanted nothing more than to get out of here. So did the rest of the Easterlings. He could tell by their expressions of disgust and horror.

They were all glad they did not have to share what the orcs were eating. Jhiro Katlian wasn't sure he even wanted to know what orcs ate. He had a sneaking suspicion they fed upon each other. The orcs greeted the newcomers mockingly and sarcastically. One fat and greasy creature with blue skin went right up to him and smiled creepily broadly, exposing an almost toothless (or fangless) mouth. His brothers and Zaa came over to Katlian as the Great Army set camp, with even more troops coming. Kluan and Kit exchanged insults towards Mordor and its foul denizens.

"Did you see that one half-red, half-yellow guy?" One asked.

"Yeah, I swear he must've eaten his own dung! You couldn't believe how his breath smelt! And that huge, empty eye socket?"

"I think a rat built a nest in that thing!"

"Or maybe it used the socket as a latrine!" They both guffawed, and even Ben Zaa allowed himself a chuckle. He nudged Kit.

"I hope you both know we're stuck here 'til the war begins." The twins gaped and now Katlian and Zaa laughed, to shake off some of the growing fear in their hearts. And they needed to, because Ben Zaa was right.

I do hope y'all enjoyed this. More will be told about Katlian's past in later chapters as this one was mainly for introducing him and the plot. I also hope to make the later chapters longer, as they will introduce the land of Rhûn itself along with its culture. Until then, I bid you adieu.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, would I actually be writing this? No!

Tindomiel: Thanks for the feedback! As for the onions bit, they're a cash crop among the Easterlings who consider it a delicacy, and use it in many meals. Warriors tend to eat them raw for three reasons, one being the fact that more food was given to the armies fighting Dale and Erebor to the Northwest. Also, there was not enough time to cook during long marches, and it was considered manly among them to eat onions raw. And personally, I'd love to eat raw onions… J

As for his views on the West, he and most other Easterlings see them as rich and corrupt barbarians, somewhat similar to Imperial Japan's views on the West during the 1930's/40's. And Sauron is seen by some as a necessary evil, and by others as a savior of their kind, and by all as a powerful sorcerer. I hope that clears things up.

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Chapter Two: The Wild North

Katlian sat in his dark tent for hours trying to get some sleep. He didn't understand how Ban Zaa, Kluan, or Kit could stand this place. The flames all over the barren plains of Mordor brought back the image of his burning village, the memory of which was still lingering in the confines of his mind.

---Twelve years before---

The ebony skinned Far Haradrim mercenary known as Tariq surveyed what was left of a pillaged settlement, as a raging inferno took what little was left and the dazed survivors got ready to bury the bodies of their loved ones. Most of the villagers were grouped up in around the pagoda-temple complex in the center of town, which had miraculously gone through the massacre unscathed. He and his companions arrived in the middle of the slaughter, and they had managed to chase the Variags away.

Tariq saw one sallow-skinned Easterling kneeling beside the body of what must've been his father. And in his furious, dark eyes he saw Power. A touch of destiny hovered about this lad. Upon inquiring about the boy, a one-eyed man told the Far Haradrim, "His entire family is dead, killed in front of their home. His sister was kidnapped, taken by their leader."

"Hmph." Was the only reply that story got. Tariq strode over the silent boy and asked calmly, "What is your name?" The child finally moved his head to look at the stranger.

"My name, is Jhiro Katlian."

"It appears to me you're the only Jhiro now."

Tears welled up in Katlian's eyes and a shiver ran up his spine. "Y-yes. I s-suppose I am, sir." Tariq straightened himself up. "Now there. This land is not safe for you while the clans still fight for power. You just saw one band of Variag mercenaries come here. I am sure you do not want to see another." Jhiro Katlian remained silent. "If you come with my clan, I'll teach you everything I know. I swear it by the Sun and Moon."

Katlian pondered this for a moment, mouth moving in noiseless whispers. " I will join you, sir."

"Good! Do you know how to ride a horse?" The boy shook his head.

"And yet you want to join _my_ clan? Oh well, a little tutoring never hurt. Have you ever wielded a sword? No? An axe? Spear of any sort? Have you ever even used a bow?"

"I did hunt with a sling once or twice."

Tariq grimaced. "You have a lot to learn, Jhiro. That shall be your new name, for you are the last of your family and thus the master of yourself. Get used to it. We will ride north to my camp in the forests. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"We have already provided you with this chestnut horse, may it serve you well. Her name is Erdda. Any questions?"

The young Jhiro spoke meekly, "May I spend The Three Days here? I must see to the burial of…"

"Of what can be found of your family." Tariq finished. "Of course. But it's best not to linger here any longer than necessary."

He nodded, and rushed to the bodies of his brothers and parents. His brothers and mother had been burnt alive inside their home. All that was left of them was charred bones. He buried their remains and left a flat, three-foot high white obelisk with glyphs bearing their names and magical spells to see that they got to the afterlife. The next day was spent in silence among all survivors who lost relatives.

The final day was a large party to honor their dead kinsman, and even Jhiro had taken three sips of the local spring water mixed with onion juices and honey in a rite called Onin, because that's what each person said after taking each sip of the drink. It made Jhiro twitch, but he found he liked it for some reason.

After the burial rites, Jhiro, Tariq, and the rest of the mercenaries rode with great haste northwards. But Jhiro got one last look at his dead village. He wondered if he would ever see his sister again, and if his family had ascended into the land of the good spirits. "Ya! Go, Erdda!" He gave the horse a good kick and they bolted off, following the mysterious Far-Haradrim.

Sorry for the brevity, but I will make the next chapters longer and more interesting. Thanks for reading my humble work, good people!


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